driver sat an officer impatiently waiting for them. On the two seats behind were four soldiers muffled in heavy clothes, machine guns in their laps. Anton had to climb into the cabin of the first truck and sit between Schulz and a gruff soldier at the wheel. Such a lot was happening! For Anton, who was still too young to absorb the past, each new event erased the preceding one from awareness and buried it in his subconscious.
They left Haarlem, driving through the suburbs, and came to the long, straight, two-lane highway that ran along the old ship canal to Amsterdam. There was no other traffic. On the left the overhead wiring of the electric train and the trolley hung to the ground in graceful curves. Here and there the rails stood upright like the horns of a snail. Sometimes even the poles were lying down. On all sides, the hard frozen ground. They drove slowly. It was impossible to hold a conversation because of the racket inside the cabin. Everything was made of dirty, rattling steel, which somehow told him more about the War than he had ever understood before. Fire and this steel—that was the War.
Without meeting anyone they drove through Halfweg, along the abandoned sugar factory, and came to the final stretch of the twenty kilometers to Amsterdam. He could already see the city at the horizon, behind the sandy embankment laid out, as his father had explained to him, for a projected ring highway. They were driving along snowed-in peat diggings, when the front car suddenly swerved sharply into the embankment. The soldiers waved their arms, shouted, and jumped out of the trucks. At that moment Anton too saw the plane. No larger than a fly, it flew at a right angle across the road. The driver of his truck stepped on the brakes, crying, “Get out!” and jumped downhimself without turning off the motor. Schulz did the same on the other side. All about him Anton heard shouting. The men in front crouched behind their car clutching their machine guns, ready to shoot. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone calling him, waving. It was Schulz, but Anton could not take his eyes off the small thing that circled over the road and then came straight at him, growing fast. It was a Spitfire; no, a Mosquito; no, a Spitfire. Mesmerized, he stared at the shaky steel that approached as if it loved him. It could not harm him. He was, after all, on their side, they knew that, of course—even yesterday. From below the wings he saw some flashes crackle, minor incidents, hardly worth noticing. On the ground too, fire broke loose. It whistled and popped and rattled on all sides. He felt the blows of the impact, and because he thought the plane would ram into him, he dove below the dashboard while the motor bellowed above him like a steam roller.
A second later he was pulled out from his hiding place under the steering wheel and dragged to the ditch. To the left and right of the road he saw at least a hundred soldiers rising. Farther on, near the last truck, he heard the wounded moaning. When the plane disappeared into the clouds and it became evident that it would not return, Anton, his heart still pounding, crossed the road to join the sergeant. Ice splinters as large as gramophone needles blew into his face. On the other side of the truck, right near the running board, two soldiers carefully turned a body over. It was Schulz. The side of his chest had become a dark pool of blood and tatters. Blood was also coming out of his nose and mouth. He was still alive, but his face was contorted with such pain that Anton felt the need to do something at once to relieve it. Suddenly he turned away, nauseated and in a cold sweat, less from the sight of all the blood than from the frustration. He pushed the helmet off his head, loosened the scarf, and groped for the shaking hood of the truck as the vomitspouted out of his wide-open throat. At almost that instant the last truck in the column burst into flame.
He hardly noticed what happened next.
They left Haarlem, driving through the suburbs, and came to the long, straight, two-lane highway that ran along the old ship canal to Amsterdam. There was no other traffic. On the left the overhead wiring of the electric train and the trolley hung to the ground in graceful curves. Here and there the rails stood upright like the horns of a snail. Sometimes even the poles were lying down. On all sides, the hard frozen ground. They drove slowly. It was impossible to hold a conversation because of the racket inside the cabin. Everything was made of dirty, rattling steel, which somehow told him more about the War than he had ever understood before. Fire and this steel—that was the War.
Without meeting anyone they drove through Halfweg, along the abandoned sugar factory, and came to the final stretch of the twenty kilometers to Amsterdam. He could already see the city at the horizon, behind the sandy embankment laid out, as his father had explained to him, for a projected ring highway. They were driving along snowed-in peat diggings, when the front car suddenly swerved sharply into the embankment. The soldiers waved their arms, shouted, and jumped out of the trucks. At that moment Anton too saw the plane. No larger than a fly, it flew at a right angle across the road. The driver of his truck stepped on the brakes, crying, “Get out!” and jumped downhimself without turning off the motor. Schulz did the same on the other side. All about him Anton heard shouting. The men in front crouched behind their car clutching their machine guns, ready to shoot. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone calling him, waving. It was Schulz, but Anton could not take his eyes off the small thing that circled over the road and then came straight at him, growing fast. It was a Spitfire; no, a Mosquito; no, a Spitfire. Mesmerized, he stared at the shaky steel that approached as if it loved him. It could not harm him. He was, after all, on their side, they knew that, of course—even yesterday. From below the wings he saw some flashes crackle, minor incidents, hardly worth noticing. On the ground too, fire broke loose. It whistled and popped and rattled on all sides. He felt the blows of the impact, and because he thought the plane would ram into him, he dove below the dashboard while the motor bellowed above him like a steam roller.
A second later he was pulled out from his hiding place under the steering wheel and dragged to the ditch. To the left and right of the road he saw at least a hundred soldiers rising. Farther on, near the last truck, he heard the wounded moaning. When the plane disappeared into the clouds and it became evident that it would not return, Anton, his heart still pounding, crossed the road to join the sergeant. Ice splinters as large as gramophone needles blew into his face. On the other side of the truck, right near the running board, two soldiers carefully turned a body over. It was Schulz. The side of his chest had become a dark pool of blood and tatters. Blood was also coming out of his nose and mouth. He was still alive, but his face was contorted with such pain that Anton felt the need to do something at once to relieve it. Suddenly he turned away, nauseated and in a cold sweat, less from the sight of all the blood than from the frustration. He pushed the helmet off his head, loosened the scarf, and groped for the shaking hood of the truck as the vomitspouted out of his wide-open throat. At almost that instant the last truck in the column burst into flame.
He hardly noticed what happened next.
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